Blood is Always Thicker Than Water
by Baby-Cellophane
Summary: Sequel to "The Sins of the Father." Rene's sister comes looking for him, and Pierre re-enters Theresa's life, making them both question the decisions they've made and the life they've built together.
1. Prologue, 1506

**PROLOGUE, 1506…**

He didn't like seeing Pierre and Theresa together, and was secretly glad that Pierre was leaving Lyon. René had never really thought of himself to be the jealous type, but he had also never really been in love before. He'd never been married, and his idea about what marriage was seemed vague, though he'd never say this out loud. He had always assumed that marrying a woman meant that it was his primary job to protect her from the advances of other men.

Pierre was certainly not flirting with Theresa; he had his arm draped casually around the waist of a curvy little acrobat whose name René did not know. Theresa was standing about a foot away from him, her hands clasped in front of her. It was apparent that he was only saying goodbye to her, but René still didn't like it.

He went to Theresa and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him and smiled. "So you're leaving?" he said, addressing Pierre.

Pierre nodded. "Only for six months or so," he said. "I'll be back whenever the circus passes through." He shifted uneasily and glanced over his shoulder. "I should go see if Hans needs my help," he said. He left quickly, the acrobat skipping after him.

René put his arms around Theresa. He was only somewhat relieved to see Pierre go; he'd feel better if he left Lyon for good. At least Pierre knew that Theresa was no longer his wife. Well, she'd never been his wife to begin with, but at least Pierre acknowledged this. If he harbored any lingering affections for her, he was keeping them well hidden.

René didn't like Pierre. He was a thief, which automatically made him dishonest, and he always seemed to have a snide remark on the edge of his tongue. Lately, Pierre had been quiet and secretive, and this only made René dislike him more. It seemed like Pierre was planning something – something dishonest – and it would undoubtedly involve Theresa in some way.

What if Pierre had changed his mind about her? What if he wanted her back? Seeing him flirting and kissing the acrobat should have shaken the notion from René's mind, but it didn't. Pierre did not seem genuinely interested in the acrobat. René couldn't put his finger on the reason, but Pierre's feelings for the acrobat didn't seem particularly real. This bothered René more than he cared to admit, but Pierre would be leaving in a few hours. He would be gone for six months or more, depending on where the circus went and how much money they made. In six months, Theresa could forget about Pierre, and, hopefully, he would forget about her.

~xXx~

He had not realized that saying goodbye to Giovanni would fill his heart with so much pain. He had known Giovanni his entire life, had loved him for just as long; a world without Giovanni would seem incomplete. Pierre shoved the feelings back and glanced over at Tess. She was walking on her hands, entertaining herself as she waited patiently for him to say his goodbyes.

He did not need to tell himself that what he felt wasn't normal and that separating himself from what tempted him most was the only cure. It didn't make the idea of leaving hurt any less. True, he would also miss his mother and sister, and his friends. He still would miss Giovanni the most. He wondered if Giovanni would miss him, and he waved the thought aside. Of course Giovanni would miss him! They were best friends. Giovanni obviously didn't know – could never know – what Pierre felt in his heart; if he did, he'd be disgusted. He'd want Pierre put to death.

"You really are leaving, then?" asked Giovanni.

Pierre nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"I'll miss you," said Giovanni. He glanced at Tess, and Pierre followed his gaze. She was doing a split now.

Pierre shrugged. "Well, you can see why I'm leaving, though."

"Oh God, yes. If Katarina could do that…"

Pierre laughed. "You two have enough children running around." He searched for Katarina and found her standing with Heracles and his mother. Heracles was holding Dante and Musetta, balancing each child on his shoulder as if they weighed nothing.

Giovanni rolled his eyes, then turned to Pierre. "I'm going to miss you," he said.

"I – I'll miss you too." Giovanni's sudden declaration threw Pierre off-guard. Giovanni had never really discussed his feelings, unless they pertained to Katarina. When he was younger, he'd been capable of singing her praises for hours on end, which had both aggravated and devastated Pierre.

"I mean it," said Giovanni. He patted Pierre's shoulder. "You're my brother."

Pierre felt himself smiling. "You're my brother, too."

Giovanni saw him as a brother, loved him as one, and that somehow warmed Pierre's heart. "I got you a gift." Giovanni was saying. He was handing Pierre a lumpy package wrapped in brown paper.

"You didn't have to," said Pierre. He took the package and stared down at it, unaware that his hands were shaking as he opened it. "You really didn't have to."

Giovanni shrugged. He was watching Tess, who was turning cartwheels. "I hear it gets cold up in Germany."

"It gets cold here too." Pierre lifted a blue coat out of the crumpled paper. It felt thick and heavy, and it warmed him when he put it on. "You didn't have to do this."

Giovanni finally looked at him. "I'll take it back if you really want."

Pierre shook his head. "Thank you," he said. "It's wonderful."

Hans and Frieda had finished packing the tents and wagons. Pierre watched as Tess climbed up into the acrobats' caravan; he'd be living in it with her for the next six months, probably longer. He suddenly didn't want to go, and wished that there was some excuse he could make in order to stay. He didn't want to leave his mother and sister, his friends, or Giovanni. His feet felt heavy, as though they were made of stone, but he went to the caravan.

He turned and waved. He smiled, trying to seem brave and cheerful, as though he truly wanted to leave. "I'll be back before you know it," he called as he climbed up into the caravan. He stood by the window and kept waving as the caravan rolled down the well-worn road.

~xXx~

"René Thénardier?"

The voice was familiar, and made his stomach tighten. He knew that Cosette was supposed to be staying in Lyon, but he had not seen her since her arrival, two months ago. He had almost forgotten her entirely. He turned, hoping that he was wrong about hearing her voice, and came face to face with her.

She was still small and fragile-looking. Her skin was extremely pale, making her blue eyes stand out more than usual. Her curly brown hair was partially hidden by a dark gray shawl. She was plump, but she did not look pregnant; she was supposed to be staying in Lyon until her baby was born, then she would return to Paris.

Her blue eyes, which were normally calm and placid, were bright and full of anger. René took a step backwards. He had not honestly expected to see Cosette in Lyon. She was a delicate young woman. She had spent most of her life indoors, being cultivated and groomed like an exotic plant. She was wealthy enough to send servants to the market in her stead.

"Hello, Cosette." He suddenly wondered if she would recognize Theresa at all. Had she ever seen Theresa? She knew that Jean-Claude had accused a Gypsy of placing a spell on her, but did she know which one? Did she know that Theresa was Jean-Claude's scapegoat? René scanned the marketplace, searching for Theresa, and was simultaneously relieved and panicked when he didn't see her. He had to make sure that Cosette never saw her.

Cosette was still glaring at him. She held a basket in her hands. Its contents were covered by a white cloth. "I hope you are well," said René.

She nodded briskly. "I'm quite well," she said. "Fortunately, there are no witches here in Lyon."

The comment stung him, but he shrugged and tried to act as if it hadn't. "Oh."

Cosette seemed to stand up straighter. "Luckily they do a better job of keeping the Gypsies out of this city than they do in Paris." She looked around.

René was suddenly desperate to find Theresa. He had to find her and make sure that Cosette never saw her. "I need to go," he said, "I'm glad you're in good health." He nodded to Cosette. "I wish you all the best." She did not reply; she only glared as he left her.

He was more than relieved to find Theresa at home. She was standing over the hearth, humming to herself as she stirred something that smelled delicious. He watched her in silence for a moment. She had made herself a red sash with bells on it, and it hung around her hips now. The bells jingled softly as she moved. Her slender body swayed back and forth as she continued humming.

She seemed so happy, so content, and her ease filled the room. It spread to René quickly, reaching in and gripping his heart like an invisible hand. He smiled at her as she turned around. She was surprised to see him, and she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. "You're home early," she said, kissing his cheek.

"Am I?"

She nodded. She reached up and ran her hand through his hair. She smelled like flowers and spices, and her feet were bare. She had to stand on her toes to kiss him. He placed his hands on her waist. "Yes," she said, "but I'm not complaining."

He stroked her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. When she kissed him again, he closed his eyes and immediately forgot about Jean-Claude, Cosette, and everything else in the world.

…**END OF PROLOGUE**


	2. Still 1506, Part I

**STILL 1506...**

Someone was knocking on the door. It was a soft, timid sound, as though the person on the other side of the door was unsure. Theresa peeked through the keyhole. She did not recognize the woman standing on the step. The woman was tall and thin and wore a nun's habit. Perhaps she was collecting for charity. Theresa could spare a coin or two for someone less fortunate than herself. She opened the door.

"May I help you?"

The woman looked somewhat startled. "I – I'm looking for René Thénardier."

"He isn't home," said Theresa, shaking her head. It did not really surprise her that René might know this woman, that she might be an acquaintance of his. After all, he worked in the graveyard by the church; he probably saw the nun every day. Theresa did wonder why he'd never mentioned the nun to her, though, and this made her uneasy. "You can come in and wait for him if you like."

"Please," said the woman, "if it isn't too much trouble."

Theresa stepped aside. "It's no trouble at all."

The woman entered the house, and Theresa shut the door behind her. She led the woman to the table and chairs, and motioned for her to sit. "How do you know René?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't introduce myself. My name is Clotilde. René's my brother."

Theresa stared at her. René had a sister? He'd never mentioned his family before; it suddenly occurred to Theresa that there were many things she didn't know about her own husband. How come he hadn't told her about his sister? Clotilde must have seen the surprise in Theresa's face, because she folded her hands in her lap and sighed. "He didn't tell you about me, did he?"

Theresa shook her head. Clotilde sighed again. The silence was thick and awkward, and though she didn't know what to say, Theresa was desperate to make it go away. "Would you like some tea?" she asked.

"Yes, please."

She turned and began busying herself at the hearth, making more noise than usual in an effort to keep the silence at bay. She could feel Clotilde watching her and felt herself blush. She glanced over her shoulder at Clotilde and forced a smile. "How long have you been a nun?" she asked.

"Nearly ten years now."

Theresa poured the tea and carried a cup over to Clotilde. Clotilde thanked her, nodding as she spoke, and though she took the cup, she did not drink. Theresa stared down at her own cup, stirring the tea with a spoon. The silence was only growing, enveloping the room and suffocating them. Theresa leapt to her feet when she heard the front door open. "There's René now," she said.

"Theresa? Are you here?" He stopped in the doorway. He was dirty, and was carrying his shovel slung over his shoulder. He stared at Clotilde, his blue eyes wide with shock. "Clotilde?"

She rose and approached René. She stopped about a foot or so away from him, but did not reach out to him. She kept her hands primly clasped in front of her. "Hello, René," she said.

René set the shovel down, leaning it against the doorframe. Theresa did not notice the dirt that slid off of it and onto the floor. She usually hated when René just left the dirty shovel lying around; it meant more sweeping for her. Today, she did not care. She watched René and Clotilde. She could almost feel the tension between them, and she regretted letting Clotilde in the house.

"What are you doing here?" asked René finally.

"It's about Mother," said Clotilde. "She's very ill, René. I think it would be best if you went to see her, to make amends."

"Make amends?"

"Perhaps that isn't the right way to phrase it. When you left, it was a great shock to her," said Clotilde. "I'm afraid she disowned you."

René rolled his eyes. "And you want me to go and apologize to her?"

Clotilde was shaking her head. "You have to admit that what you did was wrong. You tried to help a witch flee justice. She murdered a child and you tried to help her escape."

Theresa took a sip of her tea, glancing at René as she did so. He did not look at her, and this made her intensely uncomfortable. What if he suddenly pointed to her and revealed who she was? Clotilde would tell. She could easily go to the Captain of the Guard and tell him where she was. He would waste no time killing her and René.

"I'd like you to leave," said René.

"Please, let me finish." Clotilde was calm. She had not moved a muscle and continued to stand like a statue before René. "That letter you left Mother broke her heart. She didn't know how you could love someone so vile."

"Get out – "

"I've forgiven you, René. I've forgiven you, and I want you to make peace with Mother before she dies."

René pointed to the door. "I can't go back to Paris," he said. "Now please leave."

Clotilde sighed. She glanced over at Theresa. "If I could talk to Jean-Claude, if I could persuade him to let you see Mother – "

"You can't."

"But if I could, would you come?"

"No."

Theresa could feel Clotilde staring at her, watching her like a cat. She focused on her teacup, staring down into the cooling liquid. "I read the letter you left," said Clotilde. "I read it before Mother destroyed it." She paused. "You've moved on quickly, as you always do."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

" 'I love her with my heart and soul, and I know that she is innocent.' That's a line from your letter, René. How long did it take you to find a new love after she died?"

"Get out, Clotilde, get out or so help me – "

Clotilde finally moved, holding her hands up as if in surrender. "I am sorry," she said, "I misspoke. Still, René, I think you should make peace with Mother before she dies."

René did not speak, but glared at her and pointed emphatically at the door. Clotilde nodded. She turned to Theresa. "Thank you for your hospitality," she said. "I am sorry if I've offended you."

Theresa only shook her head, unable to speak. She did not know what to say; she only knew that she wanted this strange woman out of her house. Clotilde left, closing the door quietly behind her. René sighed, his posture changing immediately. He came to her and sat beside her, his shoulders slumped from fatigue. "I'm sorry," said Theresa, "I shouldn't have let her in."

"Don't be." René put his hand on her shoulder. "We need to leave Lyon."

~xXx~

Finding René had not been difficult. Clotilde had feared that she wouldn't be able to find her younger brother; René had always been a boy who couldn't sit still or stay in one place for very long. That was his reason for joining the army. Oh, he claimed that he did it out of love for his country, but Clotilde knew better. He had joined for the freedom that came with constant travel. And for the women. Soldiers rarely stayed in the same place for very long. Being married to one would be difficult for both parties; it made sense that soldiers sought tenderness in brothels, where a commitment wasn't expected or wanted.

Her brother's licentiousness had always disgusted and embarrassed her. Perhaps that was why she had taken the vow of chastity and become a nun; on some level, she was atoning for René's wantonness. He saw nothing wrong with visiting brothels and sharing the company of loose women. Perhaps it was normal for a man to indulge in such sinfulness every now and then, but to do so often and unrepentantly was wrong.

René's expulsion from Paris had caused their mother great distress. She was still in shock from the events, and her health was quickly deteriorating because of it. Running off with a Gypsy, and a witch at that! The shame of it was slowly killing their mother, and René didn't care in the least. He had clearly forgotten about the dead Gypsy witch – he was living in sin with another woman as if she'd never even existed.

Clotilde firmly believed that God answered all prayers. Sometimes, His answers were vague, and sometimes they did not come right away, but they always came. René's soul was tarnished, but not completely lost. No one was completely lost; everyone could be redeemed through prayer and sacrifice. Their mother was the key to René's redemption. If Clotilde could get René to see what his actions had done to their mother, his remorse would drive him to purge his soul.

He was stubborn, but Clotilde was patient. Patience was, after all, a virtue, and it was one she was proud to possess. The only thing preventing René from returning to Paris was Jean-Claude Frollo, the Captain of the Guard, and his order that René be executed should he set foot in Paris. Clotilde had never officially met Captain Frollo, but she knew well enough who he was. He was a just man, very fair and pious. She had seen him in the church and knew that he attended confession regularly.

If she convinced Captain Frollo that René was not a lost cause, that his soul could be redeemed through prayer and penance, then surely the captain would let him return to Paris to do so. Forgiveness was, after all, a great virtue, and one that surely the captain possessed.

~xXx~

"Oh, it's horrible! Just horrible!"

"What is?"

Tess shook her head. "Didn't you hear?" she asked, "Oxana thinks she might be pregnant!" She shook her head again. "It's horrible."

"It is?"

"Of course it is! She can't be an acrobat if she's pregnant! The baby will ruin her body! It's absolutely horrible."

"Oh."

Pierre supposed that he loved Tess. He was fond of her, he liked being around her. She was easy to talk to, and she made him laugh. He certainly didn't dislike her. He didn't find himself particularly attracted to her, though. Oh, she was pretty enough. She had a cute face and an infectious air of sweetness, but he didn't desire her. He didn't want to touch or kiss or caress her, and he certainly didn't want to make love to her.

The feeling seemed mutual. Tess loved being an acrobat, and was convinced that becoming pregnant would ruin her career. They had only made love three times, and afterwards Tess had spent an hour jumping up and down in an attempt to rid herself of his seed. Pierre wasn't even sure if this act offended him; Tess looked downright silly whenever she did it, her curly brown hair flying in all different directions.

He liked being part of the circus. It was steady work, and it paid well. Hans and Frieda didn't care that he had once been a thief. They paid him the same amount as everyone else, and no one commented about his missing finger. Pierre was relieved to finally be free of the stigma that came with the old wound. He liked the traveling. He was endlessly amazed by each new city they visited. Each city seemed foreign and familiar at the same time; it was strange how almost everything reminded him of his childhood in Paris.

He missed Giovanni, and he hated himself for it. He still loved Giovanni. Even after meeting Tess, even after moving away from Giovanni, Pierre still loved him. It seemed like everything reminded him of Giovanni; it was like he couldn't escape his memory. It was frustrating the way his mind kept wandering back to the one person he wasn't supposed to love. Clopin had assured him that falling in love with Tess would erase all of the unnatural feelings he harbored for Giovanni. Clopin had been wrong.

"God," said Tess, lying down beside him, "I don't know what she'll do."

Pierre pulled the blanket up over them. He did not mind sharing a chaste bed with Tess. It was much more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. "I'm sure she'll think of something," he said, "I mean, Hans and Frieda won't throw her out."

"But if she can't be an acrobat, how can she earn money?"

Pierre shrugged. "Maybe she isn't pregnant," he said.

Tess shook her head. "She's very promiscuous," she said, "she's slept with so many men, she doesn't even know who the father is."

"Maybe she can give it up."

"Even if she gives it away, she still can't be an acrobat again," said Tess, rolling her eyes. "A woman's body changes when she gets pregnant."

"I know that. But won't it change back? After the baby's born, I mean."

"No. Babies make women fat, and they can't get rid of it."

"Oh." He found himself thinking of his sister. Marie did seem to retain some chubbiness after she'd had her baby. Giovanni's wife, Katarina, certainly hadn't; she was still tall and rail-thin, even after bearing twins. Maybe it was different for each woman. It was something his mother would know the answer to, and he suddenly wished that he could ask her.

Tess yawned. "I'm going to sleep." She kissed him. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said. He watched as she rolled over, her back to him. "I love you," he said after a moment.

She turned to him. "I love you, too." She kissed him again, smiling. "You know, Pierre, I don't know what I'd do without you."

~xXx~

"You never told me you had a sister." Theresa was staring at him. She had not spoken since he'd told her that they would be leaving Lyon. René looked up from the map he'd been examining. Theresa was sitting on the floor, an open valise in front of her. She was folding clothes, holding them in her slim hands.

René shrugged. "I didn't think it was important," he said. "I thought that after we left Paris, I'd never see her again."

Seeing Clotilde had been completely and totally unexpected. He'd been in Lyon for nearly a year now, and neither his mother nor his sister had attempted to contact him. He'd assumed that they had disowned him; neither one of them had attempted to contact him. It hurt to think that his own mother had renounced him. He could not deny missing her immensely. It hurt even more to think that his actions had given her such grief. If she'd known Theresa, she would have understood why he'd thrown everything away just to help her. He hated to think that she would die hating him, or that he'd never see her again.

Theresa continued to stare at him. "Do you have a brother?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "Only Clotilde."

Theresa nodded. She looked down at the garment she was holding, then placed it in the valise. "Where are we going to go?"

"I don't know yet," he said. He glanced at the map. "Marseille or Barcelona. I can speak Spanish. It isn't hard, I'll teach you."

"They speak Spanish in Barcelona?"

"Yes."

Theresa sighed. She was staring down at the open valise. She suddenly looked much older than eighteen. She looked old and sad and frail, as though she would wither away before his very eyes, and this frightened René. He stood up and went to her. He knelt beside her and slid his arm around her. She continued staring down into the valise. "Theresa, we need to leave."

"I know." Her voice was hollow and unconvincing. He pulled her closer to him. He could smell her, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled. He loved her scent. He couldn't describe it, couldn't name it, but he loved it nonetheless.

"We'll go to Marseille," he said. "It's much closer than Barcelona. Your family can come and visit us."

He personally did not like the idea of staying in France. He would be more likely to run into Jean-Claude or Clotilde in Marseille than Barcelona. Theresa was a Gypsy; all Gypsies wandered, it was in their blood, part of who they were; she should not mind moving so much. Still, she looked so miserable and homesick even though they hadn't even left. She clearly didn't want to leave her friends and family. He didn't want to be the one to uproot her like this, but they had no choice. Jean-Claude would return to Lyon. As long as he was married to Cosette, as long as her relatives lived here, they would both return time and time again. It would only be a matter of time before Jean-Claude caught sight of Theresa, and if he did, he would execute them both.


	3. Still 1506, Part II

**STILL 1506…**

Réne had spent every night of the past week staring at the map, and it was beginning to frighten Theresa. He barely spoke to her, and it felt as though she rarely saw him. He seemed to work longer hours; he came home after dark and turned to the map immediately. When he wasn't poring over the map, he was obsessively counting his earnings.

As his wife, it was her duty to give him all of the coins she had earned, and she did this without a second thought. She had been avoiding the marketplace and the main roads; Réne had seen the Captain's wife in the marketplace. If she saw and recognized Theresa, she would tell her husband and he'd execute her. Theresa did not make as much money dancing in the side streets, but she didn't complain. It was more than nothing.

"I'm going to go to Marseille," said Réne one evening. Theresa stared at him. It was the first time he'd spoken in hours. "It shouldn't take more than a few days to get there," he said, "I'll be back soon."

"Why are you going?" asked Theresa.

"I want to buy a house for us before we move there, of course."

"Oh."

He had told her that he wanted to move, that it was a necessity, but hearing him talk about it so casually terrified her. It seemed to make the impending event more real. What was worse, he didn't seem to care much about it. There was the chance that she'd never see her family again. She went to the window, staring out at the darkened street that ran past the house.

She and Réne lived in town in a small house; her parents lived on the outskirts in their caravan. She had never really minded this before, but now she was struck with a sudden longing to be close to them. She wished that she could go and visit them, but she would have to wait until morning; Réne did not trust the streets after nightfall.

Réne had insisted that Marseille was not far away, that her family would be able to come and visit them. Her father's horse had died earlier in the year. Unless he bought a new one, there was no way her family could come to Marseille. How far away was Marseille? It did not look terribly far on the map. On the map, everything was tiny and squished together. Paris was a few days away from Lyon, but on the map, they looked so close together.

She had not heard Réne approach her, and she was startled when he put his arms around her waist. "I won't be gone long," he whispered. "One or two days, I swear." "I know." She leaned against him and let the curtains close.

~xXx~

He had never considered himself to be lazy. He had never been active, but he did not think that he shied away from work. It was occurring to him, though, that he had never worked particularly hard before; he had not done much manual labor. Pierre was smaller and weaker than most of the other roustabouts. The others made fun of him. Some of them were kind enough to do it when they thought he was out of earshot, but the majority of them openly laughed when he failed at what was, to them, a simple task.

He hated pitching the tents. There were three of them; a large one and two smaller ones. The large one provided the stage for the main show, while the small ones housed the Freak Show and the Carnival of the Animals. The Carnival of the Animals was relatively new to the act, and Pierre secretly did not think that it would last very long. It made enough money; people were more than willing to pay to see exotic animals. The animals themselves were quite unimpressive.

The animals consisted of a mangy lion, an equally mangy tiger, two white horses with black stripes, and a chicken that Hans had painted blue. He called it the "blue bird of happiness," and it sat in a cage and clucked miserably at everyone who looked at it. There had originally been two tigers, but one had died shortly after they'd left France. The remaining tiger lay in its cage, staring sadly out at the world.

The largest tent required at least fifteen strong men to pitch it. They had to erect a giant wooden stake and then use ropes to hoist the tent up around it. The bottom of the tent was secured to the ground with smaller wooden stakes, which were hammered into the ground. The ropes used to hoist and secure the tents were thick and rough, and they left Pierre's hands raw and red. No matter how tightly he gripped them, they always seemed to slither out of his grasp, like snakes, burning his palms.

The others had determined that Pierre's job would be to hammer the stakes into the ground. He wasn't the only one to do this, of course; the hammer was abnormally large and heavy, though. No matter how hard he pounded it into the ground, no matter how much effort or force he put into each blow, it seemed to take forever for the stake to actually sink into the earth. The weather would slowly grow colder, and the ground would begin to harden, making the task all the more difficult.

The circus seemed to acquire a new batch of roustabouts at every town it stopped at. Most of the roustabouts never stayed for long; they used the circus as a way to earn money while traveling from one place to another. They were, for the most part, bored young men who were looking for a quick adventure or men who were fleeing from something. Pierre had noticed that there were very few Gypsies, and at first, this had not bothered him. Some of the other roustabouts watched him warily, while others avoided him altogether.

"Come on," Hans was shouting, "I want the tents up before noon! We give our first performance tonight!"

Pierre hefted the hammer and swung it. It struck the stake, hitting it with a loud 'thud.' It had rained recently and the ground was moist, making the job somewhat easier. Pierre lifted the hammer again, wincing as pain shot through his arms.

"What, you can't use your witchcraft to do that?" one of the other roustabouts asked, eliciting snickers from the rest of them.

Pierre glared at him, shifting the hammer. "I'd rather use it on you," he said, striking the stake again. "Your hair's thinning, you know."

The roustabouts laughed as the man ran his hand through his hair. He spat, a thick glob of white spit landing on Pierre's arm. "Damn dirty Gypsy," he muttered. He glared darkly at Pierre and stepped away from him. Pierre swung the hammer again, trying to ignore the man as he walked away, muttering more vulgar insults as he did so. It would not do to start a fight. The man was bigger than Pierre, and he had friends who would probably be more than willing to assist him.

~xXx~

The journey to Marseille took longer than he had expected, but that was due to the weather. It had rained, turning the roads to mud and making it difficult for the horse. Still, he had made it, and, better yet, he had a place for them to live.

The cottage was much smaller than their current house, but it was warm and dry, and very cozy. It contained two rooms. The front room held a hearth, and the rear room served as a bedroom. The hearth was very large and produced a fair amount of heat. It would come in handy once winter settled and the snow began to fall. The only real downside was that the cottage was a mile away from the town itself. There were a few other houses in the area; the cottage was surrounded on three sides by a thick forest and was relatively isolated.

Surely Theresa wouldn't mind. The cottage wasn't a terrible one. In time, they could probably earn enough money to rent a room or buy a house in town. The cottage was only temporary. True, it was isolated and lonely, but it was also peaceful and quiet. Perhaps the tranquility was something they both needed. Theresa would get used to it and eventually grow to love it.

~xXx~

Captain Jean-Claude Frollo attended Sunday Mass every week without fail, and he came to confession twice a week. Clotilde wondered what sins he could possibly have committed; he was such a righteous man. He had a reputation for strictness, but he followed the law to the letter and never strayed from it.

Perhaps he viewed every little vice and misdeed as a sin and felt the need to confess. Perhaps the act comforted him; it brought him that much closer to God. He was a good man, a fair man, and Clotilde knew that if she could talk to him, she could convince him to let Réne come back to Paris. Every soul was redeemable through prayer. Surely a man like Jean-Claude Frollo would know this.

It had been difficult for Clotilde to forgive Réne for his actions. Jean-Claude would probably not be quick to forgive him. He was a deeply religious man, though, and surely he would be able to see the value of forgiveness. After all, didn't God forgive those who sought it? If Clotilde could convince Réne to seek forgiveness, then surely Jean-Claude would be willing to grant it.

~xXx~

The bed he shared with Tess was small and stiff; it was nothing more than a lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress with a blanket tossed over it. It was barely big enough for two people. Tess had to sleep nestled in his arms in order for them both to fit. It was not a comfortable arrangement by any means, but Pierre was usually too exhausted to notice. The caravan was relatively large, at least, it seemed that way. Oxana had been forced to leave the circus after becoming pregnant. She was begrudgingly living somewhere in Germany with the baby's father. Pierre, Tess, and Morgana were the only ones in the caravan, making it a bit more spacious.

Frieda was actively looking for a replacement for Oxana. So far, she hadn't had any luck. It was actually a relief to finally get rid of Oxana. She was loud and wild, up at all hours and usually in the company of a drunken stranger. Tess had not liked Oxana, and she didn't seem to like Morgana very much either. Morgana was snooty; she looked down her nose at both Tess and Pierre. She kept to herself, though, and never said anything particularly mean.

Pierre had noticed the way everyone else looked at him and Tess when they were together. It was a look that seemed to combine astonishment and disgust. Men seemed to silently wonder why Tess would willingly give herself to a Gypsy. Pierre supposed that the others were jealous of him. He saw the way they looked at her, and he remembered Giovanni commenting on her limber legs. He wondered why she had chosen to be with him.

He was not tall or strong, traits which women seemed to seek in men. He did not consider himself particularly handsome either. He was poor, and had been branded a thief. Tess had never commented on his missing finger or asked about it, but Pierre assumed that she knew what it meant. It meant that he was dishonest enough to steal and stupid enough to get caught.

"Tess?" he whispered. She shifted in his arms, tilting her head towards him. "Are you awake?"

"Yes." She lifted her head up off of his chest. Even in the darkness, he could feel her eyes on him. He stroked her hair. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I just can't sleep."

He felt her fingertips on his cheek. "Then something is wrong," she whispered. "Whenever I can't sleep, it means that something is wrong."

"You've never asked me how I lost my finger."

"Hans told me it was an accident when you were little."

He was momentarily surprised that Hans would lie about something like that, but he was also grateful. If Hans was willing to lie to Tess about his finger, then it meant that he hadn't told anyone else the truth either. Pierre did not assume that the other roustabouts and workers were honest men, but they would have more of a reason to hate him if they knew that he was a thief.

He felt Tess's lips against his hand, pressing against where his finger used to be. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Do you care that I'm a Gypsy?"

"No." He could hear hesitation and dishonesty in her voice, and it made his heart sink. He could not see her face clearly in the dark. Her head was bent anyway; all he could make out was the shadows of her curls.

"Really?"

"You're sweet," she said, kissing his hand again, "you're not like other Gypsies."

"Oh."

"Other Gypsies lie and steal," she continued, oblivious to the hurt in his voice, "and they eat children."

Pierre rolled his eyes and glared angrily up at the ceiling. It was obviously too dark for her to see him, otherwise he was sure she would have apologized right away. "That isn't true."

"Well, that's just what everyone says," said Tess quickly. Her voice was casual and surprisingly unapologetic. "I know that you don't. Only the bad ones do."

"No one eats children. They taste terrible."

Tess giggled, muffling the sound with her hands. "You're funny!" She paused for a moment, trying to stifle her giggles. "I know Gypsies don't really eat children."

"So it doesn't bother you that I'm a Gypsy?"

"No," she said. She was quiet for a while. The laughter had died from her voice. Pierre could feel her staring at him. "Why do you think I'm bothered?"

Pierre shrugged. "Everyone else is."

"Oh, I don't care what everyone else thinks!"

"I see men look at you. They want you, you know, but then they see you with me and they wonder why you chose me instead of them."

"Do you wonder why?"

"Yes."

"It's because you're sweet," she said. Her vagueness was starting to irritate him. "And you're not like other men. Other men can't control themselves." She suddenly fell silent, and Pierre was about to ask her what she meant when she spoke again, interrupting him before he could even open his mouth. "Usually, when a man wants a woman, he just takes her, but you aren't like that. You're so sweet."

He stroked her hair. "I'd never hurt you." He suddenly found himself thinking of his mother, and he had to suppress a shudder. He had always hated them men who'd hurt her, the nameless, faceless monsters who had tortured her. He hated himself even more for not being there to help her. He should have been there. He should have saved her. He should never have let her suffer so.

"I know." Tess's voice was sleepy, and it pulled him from his thoughts. She kissed his hand again. "You're very sweet."


	4. Still 1506, Part III

**STILL 1506…**

"Can I help you, Sister?"

He was skeptical about the woman at his door, but he let her into his house anyway. She wore a nun's habit. There was something vaguely familiar about her; he had probably seen her in or around Notre Dame. There was still an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he did his best to brush it aside. She was probably collecting for charity. He led her to the sitting room and motioned for her to sit down. She thanked him and sat in a stiff wooden chair by the fireplace.

"Are you collecting for charity?"

She shook her head. "No, sir," she said. "I've come to ask you a favor."

"What can I do to help the church?"

"It's actually a personal favor, Captain." She paused, obviously waiting for him to ask another question. He stared at her, scrutinizing her and trying to figure out what she could possibly want from him. Finally, she stood up. "We were never properly introduced," she said, "but you know my younger brother, Réne Thénardier."

Réne had once told him about his older sister; from what Jean-Claude could remember, he'd described her as uptight and self-righteous. Réne had never once mentioned that she was a nun. She did bear a certain resemblance to him. They both had the same blue eyes. Jean-Claude shifted and folded his arms across his chest.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"My mother is very ill," she said. There was some hesitation in her voice, but she appeared calm and collected enough. If he was making her uncomfortable, she was hiding it exceedingly well. "She wishes to see Réne one last time before she dies."

"Are you aware of the crime your brother committed?" he asked. He could not believe that she was asking him to let Réne return to Paris. The mere thought of it angered and sickened him. "Are you aware of its severity?"

"I am." Her voice was clear and confident, but her eyes shifted uncomfortably. "On behalf of Réne, I am asking your forgiveness."

For a moment, he was speechless. Her boldness was startling. "Excuse me?"

"Please, sir, I am asking you to forgive my brother. He was not in his right mind when he acted – "

"No," said Jean-Claude abruptly. The nun fell silent instantly. "That witch murdered my unborn son, and when she fled justice, Réne aided her. He helped a murderess! There is no forgiveness for him."

"I know you are a man of God," said the nun. She stepped towards him and took hold of his hands, which startled him. "God shows mercy and forgives those who repent."

"I am not God," said Jean-Claude. He could feel his anger rising. How dare this woman come to him and try to justify Réne's actions? How dare she imply that Réne should be forgiven? He pulled away from her. "I should have had your brother executed for his crime. I showed extreme leniency in letting him live."

"I am grateful, sir, truly I am." The nun wrung her hands, but she did not reach for him again, "my mother is dying, and she has done you no wrong. Please, let her see her son."

"She's free to go to him," said Jean-Claude. "No one is forcing her to remain here."

"She is too ill to travel."

"I am sorry for your mother, but if René sets one foot in Paris, I will make sure he dies for his crime."

She was quiet for a very long time. "Thank you for your time, sir," she said, nodding to him. "There is nothing that I can do to change your mind?"

"No."

She nodded again. "God be with you, Captain."

"And you as well, Sister."

He showed her out.

~xXx~

"He says it's for our safety," said Theresa. Her voice was strained. She wrung her hands nervously. "I don't want to go, but…well, I'm sure it won't be so bad…"

"If you don't want to go – "

She shook her head. "It's something I have to do, Papa." She smiled; it was a forced, unhappy smile. "Besides, it won't be so bad. Marseille isn't so far away. I can't stay in one place forever."

"Theresa, you don't look happy about it," he said.

"Well, I will miss you and Mama," she said. "And I'm a bit nervous."

"I shouldn't have let you go to Paris last year." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he regretted speaking almost instantly. Theresa sighed and went over to the hearth. She began fiddling with the kettle, adjusting it over the flame.

Clopin thought about the scars on her shoulder and leg. He thought about the dangerous man who had very nearly killed her. He thought about his own stupidity; he shouldn't have let her go. Paris was dangerous. No one knew that more than he did. Paris had been his home for most of his life, and all of his memories were negative ones. After the Court of Miracles had been seized, after Esmerelda's abduction, Paris had transformed into a prison. Escaping it had not been easy; Clopin should not have allowed Theresa to return to it. She was young and naïve, she was pretty and provocative without intending to be. She was not meant to live in a place corrupted by the so-called righteous.

"I'm sorry," he said. Theresa turned to him. She was holding two mugs. She handed one to him and sat down again.

"I'm not a child anymore," she said. "You can't protect me from everything."

"That's true," he said. "You're married now. René can protect you."

Theresa nodded. "Marseille won't be so bad," she said. "René says it's close by. I can write you letters, and we can arrange visits."

He still couldn't help worrying about the whole thing. René and Theresa had been married for a little less than a year, but Clopin still wasn't sure as to whether or not he liked him. He didn't like the fact that René had won Theresa's heart so easily; it made him nervous. Theresa seemed happy enough to be with him. She had never complained. He wasn't a bad husband; he had a steady job which provided Theresa with a roof over her head and food in her stomach.

~xXx~

"Pierre, why don't you go with Erik and help him?"

He was tired and his arms were sore from pitching the tent, but he knew better than to complain about it to Frieda. He picked up a hatchet and followed Erik into the woods. Pierre hated the woods and secretly feared that he'd get lost in them. He had been lost in the woods once for four terrifying days when he was younger, and though he now marked the trees he passed with his hatchet, he kept glancing over his shoulder and shuddering as the circus slowly faded from sight.

"We shouldn't go so far," he called.

Erik turned to him. He stared at him blankly, then blinked and kept walking. Pierre rolled his eyes; he'd forgotten that Erik didn't speak any French. He followed him, still careful to mark the passing trees. He finally caught up to Erik. Erik was by a large tree, hacking at one of the thick, low-hanging branches. Pierre watched him for a moment, then turned away and proceeded to break the branches off of another tree.

Erik was handsome. He was nowhere near as handsome as Giovanni, but he was tall and muscular and had similar blonde hair and blue eyes. Pierre began stacking the fallen branches in a pile; out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Erik had taken his shirt off. Despite the shade from the trees, the air was still hot and humid, as though the earth didn't quite realize that it was autumn.

Erik was saying something to him, and Pierre turned to face him. He was holding a canteen, offering it to Pierre. "Thank you," said Pierre, taking the canteen and drinking. Erik continued talking, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Pierre couldn't understand him. The language was thick and guttural, harsh-sounding, but at times musical. Pierre sat down beside his pile of sticks, and was surprised when Erik came and sat beside him. He handed Erik the canteen.

"_Wie heißt du_?" Erik took the canteen and pointed to Pierre.

Pierre shook his head. "I can't speak German."

"_Wie heißt du_?" Erik repeated himself and continued pointing. He bit his lip in frustration, then pointed to himself. "Erik," he said, jabbing his chest with his finger. "Erik." He pointed to Pierre again.

"Oh! I'm Pierre." Pierre pointed to himself, feeling somewhat silly.

"Pierre," mimicked Erik. "Pierre." He stretched the word out as if he was exploring it. He smiled, looking satisfied. He took another swallow of water from the canteen. He tilted his head, staring hard at Pierre, then pointed at the earring in his left ear and said something else in German.

Pierre touched the earring, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He'd had it for as long as he could remember, had never taken it out. He wasn't even sure if it could come out. He shook his head again and shrugged. "I can't understand you." Erik continued to point at the earring. "It's an earring," said Pierre finally, not knowing what else to say. He wished that Erik would stop pointing at him.

Erik shook his head and bit his lip again, this time tapping his finger against it as if he was struggling with something. "Gypsy?" he said finally.

Pierre nodded, once again pointing to himself. "Yes," he said. "I'm a Gypsy." Erik nodded, then picked up his hatchet and stood up. Pierre watched him for a moment as he went over to a tree and began cutting one of the branches.


End file.
